“Great pony, that, Mr. Loring; he knows a good place, all right. He’ll take you down the trail fine as can be. He’s a wise one, for sure.”
They led the pony to the door again, the hoofs creaking strangely on the wooden floor.
“Look out for your head, Mr. Loring! That’s good. Á Dios—good night!”
From the trail Loring’s voice carried back. He was singing at the top of his lungs.
“Full right up to his ears!” ejaculated Hankins. “I hope he don’t fall off and break his neck.”
Meanwhile the faithful little horse trudged steadily down the trail, carrying his helpless master. There are few Arizona horses which do not understand the symptoms indicated by a limp weight in the saddle, and meaningless tugs on the bridle.
The camp, save for the flare by the smelter, was unlit. The pony went straight to the corral, past all the dark, silent tents and shacks. The sound of the hoof-beats echoed very clearly in the stillness. At the corral Loring tried to dismount, and fell from the saddle hard. The shock roused his consciousness.
“Must be near ’leven. What, what wash I going—going to do at ’leven? Oh, yes. Hoist, extra shift.” Leaving the poor pony standing still saddled in the rain, he started up the hill for the hoist.
Reaching the steps of the deserted tienda, he sat down and supported his head with his hands.
“I guess I must be—a bit—tight,” he thought.